Letting Go
by bethe1tosay
Summary: The love of Christian's life died three years ago, and after writing their story as promised, he tries to get it published. Accidentally, his draft gets switched with Jocelyn's, and his script is lost. But a chance meeting months later brings feelings he
1. Summary

Hi! This is my newest story for fanfiction. I've always wanted to write an alternate ending or well, a 'what happened next' after Moulin Rouge ended. So I did the latter, and I have the first chapter ready to go. I started writing this a while ago... but I never got into it, then suddenly I had an idea, and this is where it's taking me. I don't know if I like it yet, but maybe with enough reviews and people that like it, I'll keep writing.  
  
This story is about three years after Satine died, still taking place in Paris, 1903. Christian is still "getting over" Satine, albeit he never really will, but he finds new love: Jocelyn Williams. Simple but complicated, Jocelyn is beautiful and the daughter of a wealthy publisher: Henry Williams. Only nineteen years old, but wise beyond her years, she ends up with Christian's script: Falling in love with the character and becoming obsessed with finding the man who wrote it. She happens upon him one day, finally, after many months, but he's not as warm and accepting as she had hoped he'd be: Instead, he wants his script back... and he doesn't want to talk about it.  
  
Jocelyn pursues Christian like no other, and his complicated feelings finally turn to something new; and he agrees to talk to her. He'll never forget Satine, but... maybe Jocelyn can be his future.   
  
With twists and turns and bumps in the road, I'm hoping I'll be able to write something about what happens to Christian afterward. Moulin Rouge had a sucky ending... so I'm creating a happy one.  
  
Thanks for reading! :) 


	2. Epilogue Dreaming

"Christian, promise me."  
  
  
  
The crowd was spread, clustered in groups on the stage in the sickly sweet rose-scented air. Tears began to itch at the sides of Christian's clouded blue eyes. He held her slim, silk-clad body, her fiery red hair spilled over his arms.   
  
"Satine," he whispered, his hot breath softly touch her tear stained cheek.  
  
All the time he had spent with Satine ran through Christian's mind and thin streams of tears finally trailed down his face. All the times they'd made love, the rehearsals, the laughter... the love. It was all dying with Satine.   
  
Another skinny stream of blood trickled out of side of her mouth, spotting on her collarbone. Christian felt it drip onto his hand, warm and wet. He tried frantically to wipe it away, pretend it wasn't real. "I-I'm dying. I'm so sorry." She tried to clutch at his shirt with shaking, pale hands, but she couldn't get a grip. She was terrified.  
  
"You'll be alright," he murmured, stroking her hair, holding her tightly to him, wishing he could absorb her sickness into his body, take away her pain.  
  
"I'm cold, I'm cold - hold me."  
  
"I love you." He whispered sadly, he knew there was nothing he could do, the blood was coming faster and thicker.  
  
Satine looked up, her misty, crystal blue eyes filled with all the tender love she had for him. "You've got to go on, Christian."   
  
"I can't go on without you." He cried brokenly.  
  
"You've got so much to give. Tell our story, Christian. Promise me... Promise me I'll always be with you." Satine stroked his face, his beloved face that was blurring away and his voice was so far away... everything was so far away...  
  
Christian watched her eyelashes close, and they cast long shadows on her deathly pale skin. He felt the life drain quickly from her body, and he sat completely still, feeling her body get heavier. Her arms went limp and fell away from him, her mouth went slack. Disbelief filled his features, and his chin began to tremble painfully as he tried to hold in his pain. His surroundings blurred, everything seemed disgustingly surreal. He lowered his head to hers mechanically and began to sob.  
  
Satine, he cried out, almost screaming, over and over again. The crushed rose petals clung to their clothes, fluttered in the air. The never-ending stream of red...  
  
Satine, Satine....   
  
Christian rolled over, his lean, sweaty body wrapped in the itchy white sheets. Shock and pain rolled into a cold, hard lump in his chest that matched the thick knot in his throat. His cheeks were hot and sticky with drying tears.  
  
Reaching up, Christian ran a hand through his sweaty dark brown hair. Looking around wildly, the bright morning sunlight streamed in through the slits in the chipping-green painted shutters. Letting his breath out slowly, Christian sat up and rubbed a hand over his sleek, shiny chest to relieve the tense feeling.  
  
He gasped, the dream hitting his sweaty body like ice water. Christian rubbed his eyes, trying to push the vivid, beautiful picture of Satine from his mind.  
  
Christian wiped at his cheeks and turned to the makeshift table next to the large bed.  
  
His eyes fell upon the two stacks of papers on the table. The leather bound one was the old script to 'Spectacular, Spectacular'. The thicker one was the finished story of the Moulin Rouge. His experiences, their experiences, his love, their love, her love... Their story. He had written it a year after Satine's death, as he'd promised silently, and it had been sitting there for almost two years.   
  
Three years he'd been alone. He'd barely even noticed. The days had blurred into months, those months into years, and now here he was.  
  
Christian wasn't sure what do with it yet... Getting out of the bed he had spent so many cherished nights and days with Satine in, he walked to the window and flung the shutters open. It was a new day, a new time to begin.   
  
He could begin with the script. 


	3. 1 The Script

Chapter 1  
  
The Script  
  
Christan took the time to shave, to pull out nice clothes, to actually eat something that just might be called a meal.  
  
He felt odd doing all of this. Three years ago, getting dressed properly and eating a real meal would not have been foreign to him at all. But now, after three years of doing nothing but writing and re-reading their story, it had taken his life away. He noticed that when he put his slacks on, they were rather big in the waist, and he knew he never had any weight to lose anyway.  
  
He groaned, but tightened his belt as tight as it would go, tucked his shirt in and just made do with tightening his suspenders.  
  
He was grateful his shoes still fit.  
  
Once he felt he was presentable, Christian grabbed a random hat off of a table by the door and went on his way, carrying the script of 'Moulin Rouge' under his right arm.   
  
Christian knew where he was going. Toulouse had told him of a man named Henry Williams, a kind of nobleman by birth, who had moved to Paris from London with his daughter after his wife had died.   
  
Toulouse had met Williams at the Moulin Rouge, he had been a high paying customer, a "high paying customer, indeed."  
  
Christian shook his head at the memory, a small smile playing about his lips. He turned the corner onto the main road, passing in front of the Moulin Rouge. He gave it barely a glance, because he refused to dwell in the memories here. They might make him turn around and go back home, because his uncertainty was terrible as it was.  
  
He strolled by, walked around the corner, let out a sigh. He had a couple more blocks until he reached the 'crème-de-la-crème' neighborhood, as he and Satine had jokingly called it, although he knew that that was where Satine had once dreamt of living before she had met him, that that had been where her heart laid. But circumstances can change dreams, people can come into your life and change everything, and Christian was one brutally aware of this.  
  
He sighed again, then smiled at a woman who strolled by, her hand tucked firmly into her escorts crooked arm as they strolled along the street, looking at the shops. She gave him a tiny smile in return as he cocked his hat.   
  
It made him feel a bit alive again.  
  
He reached the neighborhood he had been aiming for, then pulled the scrap of paper that had the address on it that Toulouse had scribbled in his bold, wide cursive.   
  
As Christian walked along the streets, staying close to the gates that separated the lawns from the sidewalk, the lawns from the neighboring lawns, he noticed that all the townhouses looked alike. He doubted very much that this was where the man lived, but was probably his office.   
  
Across the street from the row of tall, skinny, three-story townhouses, was a large, lush green park. A carriage was going along the far side, where a creek ran, and there were trees lining the walk, and Christian could see even from where he stood, tulips were just beginning to bloom, in many vivid, shocking colours. A rich-looking couple dressed to the nine's were walking a little Scottish terrier.   
  
Christian sighed. The world had not changed. It was the same.  
  
Gripping his script, Christian unlatched the black, wrought iron gate that had kept him from entering into the immaculate yard and walked to the front door, unsure if he was to knock or just go in.   
  
He knocked.  
  
A few moments later, a prestigious looking butler came to the door, holding it open, but in a way that he was blocking any form of entrance by keeping his hand on the door. His face was rather impassive and he stared at Christian for a moment before asking, "Yes?"  
  
"I'm here to see Mister... Mister Williams."  
  
"Do you have an appointment?" The words oozed off of his tongue in a thick British accent.  
  
"Um, no, but..."  
  
At that second, the words "Ah! Christian!" in a very familiar voice made Christian smile. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, all four feet eight inches of him, waddled to the door, and he was, as always, immaculately dressed, and grinning in that drunken way of his. He just about shoved the butler out of the way, who sniffed and made room for Toulouse by walking away, and pulled Christian inside. "Are you finally out of that hole of yours?" Henri was asking, still pulling Christian down the corridor. It was richly furnished, with wooden walls with carved paneling and an arched ceiling. Antique chairs were placed in random places, along with side tables and trunks and paintings. "Are you here to see Henry, Christian?"  
  
Christian nodded, looking down at the dear little man.   
  
"Good, good. I will tell him for you. He will see you." Toulouse had led him to the end of the hallway, past the sitting rooms and parlors, to a closed door.  
  
Yes, this was probably his office and/or seasonal home, rather than his main residence.   
  
"I've missed you, Christian," he heard Toulouse say, which was rather unusual. "Since the Moulin Rouge shut down, I've had to find other work, and it's just not as fun." Toulouse shook his head, as if to ward off bad feelings, smiled and knocked briskly on the door before opening it and walking in.  
  
The office was rather large, with huge bookcases on either side of the room made of mahogany wood that matched an extraordinarily beautiful desk. Floor-length burgundy drapes held back by golden tassels revealed a large window that exposed the backyard, which was just as pristine as the front yard.  
  
Christian heard a grunt a few feet in front of him. Sitting behind that big, beautiful desk, was a big, not-so-beautiful man. Mr. Williams had come to his feet, and Christian took him in a moment before speaking. He wore a three-piece suit made of navy blue fabric, and a gold watch chain glinted contrastingly against it. He had salt-and-pepper hair, and a large, ruddy face that made the glasses he was wearing look tiny. But the thing that truly intimidated Christian was his height. He was maybe two inches over six feet, against Christian's five foot nine structure.  
  
But he didn't let the intimidation he felt show, but smiled and was about to speak when Toulouse came up. "Henry, this is Christian Taylor. Christian, Henry Williams." He then took it upon himself to explain to Henry as to why Christian was there and what a great writer Toulouse believed Christian to be. When he was done with his little speech, he smiled at them both, patted Christian on the back and made his way out, closing the door behind him.  
  
The silence stretched out between them for a moment, before Mr. Williams unclasped the hands he had put behind his back and gestured to a seat in front of his desk. "Take a seat, will you, Mr. Taylor."  
  
"Thank you, sir." Christian took a seat. And before he could speak, Henry said, "So have you brought anything with you that I can read before we even get started on whether I'd like to publish your work or not?"  
  
Christian's eyebrows rose at that. He wasn't used to being asked something so bluntly, nor met anyone to straight-to-the-point, but he figured he might as well go with the flow. "Yes, actually, I have." He stood up and handed the large bundle of sheets over to Mr. Williams, who eyed it. "The Moulin Rouge, eh?"  
  
"Yes, it's... it's based on a true story."  
  
Mr. Williams looked up at Christian with a look that told Christian he could care less for the moment. Christian resisted the urge of wringing his hands together and sat tall in the seat. Either he would get this published, or he wouldn't. Mr. Henry Williams wasn't the only publisher in Paris. He wasn't Christian's only hope.   
  
Mr. Williams flipped back the title pages, then sat back and began to read. Christian stared at his aloof face, waiting. Five minutes later, Mr. Williams let out a laugh. "You can't be serious, Christian." He said, smirking. "Romance? Love? Even about a brothel? You honestly can't be serious, Mr. Taylor."  
  
Christian stared at him. "You haven't read it all, Mr. Williams. It's about... it's about life. It's about the turn of the century, what they called the Bohemian lifestyle. It tells about-."  
  
"I don't give a damn what it's about, Mr. Taylor." Henry Williams said in a matter-of-fact voice. "No one will ever read it. No one wants to read about... about love and romance." He shook his head, slapping the draft onto the table. "I'm sorry," he said in a sarcastic-tone that was hidden by a small smile, "but why don't you try writing something that's realistic?"  
  
Christian was outraged. "Realistic? I wrote it based on true events, that has to be realistic." He raised half out of his seat, gesturing to the pile of papers. "That is my life!"  
  
"Mr. Taylor, Mr. Taylor, no need to raise your voice." Mr. Williams pulled off his glasses and began to polish them with a white felt cloth. "I'm merely telling you what the public won't read. Your life, real life, or not," he added after a pause, looking up at him.  
  
"But you, one man, couldn't possibly know that."  
  
Mr. Williams turned rather red at that, placing his glasses back on his blubbering face. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Taylor. I did not become a successful publisher not knowing what the public doesn't want to read."  
  
Christian left out the fact that that was because Mr. Williams usually published only old writings, some even as old as Aristotle. Because that's what the public wanted - proper writing, like the writings of the Enlightened Era thinkers and philosophers. They didn't want realism, now, did they?   
  
Christian stood up his full length this time, reaching over and grabbing his script. "Well then, forgive me for wasting your time, Mr. Williams. And forgive me for not knowing how wise you are on what people want." Christian had no idea where the angry words came from, but they were heartfelt, so he said them. He didn't know if he'd live to regret them or not, but Christian knew he had no life Henry could ruin, so he went on his way, not caring, leaving a furious Mr. Williams.  
  
As he closed the door rather loudly, shaking his head furiously, not knowing his own face was extremely red, Christian turned to walk down to the corridor to the front and make his exit. But as he was turning, he ran straight into another person.   
  
They collapsed, Christian uttering a few explicit words in French as he landed on his rear. Papers flew, there were gasps and a small howl of pain from the person Christian had run into. Once the papers landed, Christian reached up to rub the knot on his forehead. "Ow," he said, before looking over to apologize.  
  
A girl, or a woman maybe, he couldn't really tell through his hazy eyes, sat, mirroring Christian's position. She was sprawled, rubbing her head. She stared back at him, and as Christian's eyes cleared, he saw a teenager. Not a girl, not quite a woman. She was maybe nineteen or twenty. "Sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry, sir." She got up onto all fours, began to collect papers. "I'm so sorry," she said again, scooping papers up.  
  
"It's okay, it's okay." Christian got up onto his knees and began to help her. He saw her face then, taking in how beautiful she was, before grabbing her wrist and gently pulling her back. "It's okay, calm down."  
  
She smiled back at him, handing him a stack of papers, the Moulin Rouge paper on it upside down. "I think these are yours," she said. She had collected them very quickly, and was now straightening another stack of papers.   
  
Christian stared at her. She had bright, jade green eyes, fringed by coal black lashes, in a face that seemed made of porcelain, and thick, dark brown hair streaked with lighter tones of copper and reds. It was extremely curly, and pulled back on top of her head, and ringlets were at her ears. She smiled at him, then, causing him to come out of his reverie. "Sorry," he said to her, "Didn't mean to stare. You just..." he didn't know what to say. He was embarrassed, but she was beautiful. He shook his head, "Must have been the bump," he said, grinning. He pushed away all emotion. He reached down and helped her up. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Sorry," she said again, grinning a bit and holding her stack of papers to her chest. "I've got to run this story in to my Papa," she explained, rolling her eyes a bit. "It's... nothing."  
  
Christian felt rather odd, standing here with this girl he hardly knew and chatting as if they'd known each other for years. But then... Papa? He took in the expensive dress, the beautiful face. Of course. His smile turned rather icy. "Ah. Well. Lovely. Good day." He walked away from her, leaving her rather bewildered.  
  
Christian wanted to cry as he walked out into the sunshine. His thoughts were back on the conversation. Unrealistic? Well. I'll show you. 


	4. 2 Jocelyn

Chapter 2  
  
Jocelyn  
  
Jocelyn walked inside her father's office. "Father? Who was that?"  
  
Henry looked up, smiling a bit even though he felt like spitting nails after being told he didn't know what he was doing by a lower-class creep. But his daughter was his joy, so he made the effort to hide his anger. "Oh, hello, dear. Who was who?"  
  
Jocelyn walked into the room, the small heels of her booties sinking into the rugs that hid the wooden floors. "That man that just came out of your office."   
  
"Oh. He's nobody. A writer."  
  
"Oh? Are you going to publish his work?"  
  
"No, dear, I'm not. He's a rude little-," he caught himself. "Never mind, lovie, but no I'm not." He smiled at her over his glasses. "Why?"  
  
"Oh, I accidentally ran into him on his way out." She explained. "He seemed rather nice."  
  
Henry didn't say anything to that, just smiled and nodded as if saying 'Sure, dear'. "What are you holding?"  
  
Jocelyn looked down at the draft. Her writing. "Um... I was wondering..."   
  
In her hands was a story in the making called The Journal, about an artist with no past, and basically no future, who fell in love with a rich Irishwoman, but he knew he had no chance of staying with her because they were so different. He wrote down all of their experiences in his journal, until one day he burnt it because he thought it was bad luck. He would write down what he wished for, and it would sometimes happen, but the Irish girl never told him she loved him, and ended up going back to Ireland.   
  
It didn't have an ending yet. But she wondered what her father would think of it... of course, he wouldn't know it was by her, because no matter how much he loved and adored her, the thought of reading something by a woman caused him to become extremely flabbergasted and then sarcastic. Always something about how women couldn't write and such.   
  
Thinking about it, she lost her confidence and tucked it back into her arm. "It's nothing. I just came in to say hello."  
  
Henry gave his daughter an odd look before nodding. "Hello to you, too, then." He smiled.  
  
Jocelyn excused herself then rushed upstairs to her bedroom. Once in the small space, which was decorated in blues and whites and silver, she went to the desk underneath the wide window that overlooked the park across the street. She was disappointed in herself, why had she lost confidence?  
  
Maybe because, although she loved her father, she knew he would probably laugh at the writing, knowing whether it was written by a man or herself. He would tell her about the public, and what they wanted to read, and what was true realism...  
  
She let out an unladylike snort before opening the window to let the spring air in, then sat down. She looked down at the top page, wishing she, herself, was a publisher. She flipped the top page off, and scanned the page, realizing the writing wasn't her own. Panic crept into her chest, but she went back to the beginning and began to read.  
  
It was about the Moulin Rouge. About a man who had moved away from his cynical father in England to live a penniless existence, otherwise known as the Bohemian lifestyle. It was about how when he came to Paris, he met Toulouse; she smiled at that, everyone knew Toulouse-Lautrec, or at least who he was, just because of his rather energetic and erratic personality; and a group of actors. The writer of the play Spectacular, Spectacular, the play Toulouse and his actors are trying to make up a plot for, quits, and so they try to pass Christian off for the writer to Zidler, the man who owned the Moulin, and Satine, a beautiful prostitute whose only dream was to be a real actress. Satine then mistakes him for the duke who she was supposed to be 'spending the night' with the evening they met.  
  
The pages turned and turned, and Jocelyn read until it was so dark she had to have her maid come in and light a fire. As soon as it was lit, she went back to the story.   
  
Panic had left her, and was now replaced by a strong interest and curiosity, along with love for the strange style of writing, a style that made you feel as if you were there instead of just reading along.   
  
The writer explained how the real duke had swept down upon them, interrupting their lives, they being a man named Christian who was in love with Satine, and she in love with him; after being promised one night with Satine, and because he was a very high-paying costumer, it was almost set in stone that Satine would have to be with this slimy man who called himself a duke.  
  
The group that consisted of Christian, Satine, Toulouse, and the actors and musicians, came up with the idea for a plot for Spectacular, Spectacular, to keep Christian and Satine together. The play was based on the lives of Satine and Christian, only they changed the rolls, making the roll of Christian a penniless guitar player, Zidler the evil Maharaja, as the duke, and so on. Satine then promised the duke she'd sleep with him if he funded and helped produce the play, and Zidler even signed the Moulin Rouge over to him.   
  
Jocelyn was astounded at the way the story expanded, sweeping her in and rushing her along the days that were so filled with love between Christian and Satine, who were desperately trying to keep their love a secret. And also about how Satine had secrets of her own, that wouldn't be known to Christian until it was too late.  
  
It went on about the lovemaking, just the love in general, and what happened every day at the Moulin, the play practices, the secret meetings between two lovers. Until one day, Zidler saw them, and frightened for all of their lives, or at least, becoming homeless because the duke now owned everything, and made Satine go to Christian and tell him she didn't love him, how she didn't want to go away with him, how their affair should end.  
  
Christian was heartbroken, but refused to believe anything she said. She was an actress, a brilliant one at that, there had to be something beneath that cool and calm façade when she lied and told him all her feelings where gone. So he went after her. But in the end, he was thrown out of the theatre, without getting to see her, sobbing, crying and screaming out her name, begging just to see her, to get to talk to her. But all he got in return for his pleading was a hit in the face from a guard.   
  
But Christian didn't give up. Heartsick, weary, angry, he sold the only other thing in the world he loved: his typewriter. He traded it in for money, so he could pay Satine for the sex. In the eyes of Christian, she had been nothing but a prostitute in his arms if her love hadn't been real.  
  
The night of the production Christian snuck in and went backstage, and when an actor who had narcolepsy, a disease where he fell asleep at random times, collapsed, Christian took his coat. He went in search of Satine, and when he found her in her dressing room, he pulled out all the money he had collected. He asked if he could pay her, and when she said no, he asked why not. Her stage call came and she rushed out, looking beautiful wrapped in white satin, a gorgeous glittering tiara in her radiant red hair. She backed away from Christian, desperate to get on stage, but Christian was relentless, even as the tears began to streak Satine's face and she sobbed for him to not do this now, he pushed his money on her, he asked her why.  
  
Jocelyn had tears streaming out of her own eyes as she read. She couldn't get enough. She flipped the page, nearing the end.  
  
They collapsed onto the stage. For one completely awkward moment, the theatre was absolutely silent. The audience stared as Satine, who had tripped as she made her way onto the stage and was now lying underneath a towering Christian, who was staring at the audience with tear-filled eyes, stared back.   
  
The act was on.  
  
Christian backed away from Satine, pulling the money back out. In one thrust of his arm, he threw all of his money at Satine and said as though it were his line, "I have paid my whore." His voice sounded as if it were wrenched out of his chest, drenched in misery. Satine sobbed, trying to get up, but the cries that wracked her body stopped her. She was on her knees as Christian walked away.  
  
Zidler, who was playing the evil Maharaja, stood on the stage absolutely flabbergasted. He knew it wasn't an act that was going on, but he went along to trick the public. He became loud and boisterous, trying to sway the audiences' attention to himself. Christian walked off the stage, shoulders slumped, absolutely defeated, believing he and Satine were over. This was the way it would end. But in the midst of silence that followed Zidler's act, a voice began to sing to him.  
  
Their song.  
  
It was a song that Satine and Christian had created for each other. Saying that no matter what happened, they would always love each other. They were meant. The writer spoke of the hope and happiness that sprung into Christian's chest, and as he turned and saw Satine standing, singing the song to him, he realized it was the truth. Christian sang back to her, rushing back to the stage, and they finished the play the way they imagined.   
  
When it ended, the curtains fell. The raptured audience was on their feet, with the duke still sitting in his seat, seething because he too knew the truth of what was going on between Satine and Christian. That they had been playing a game with him. That they had lied. And he was beyond outraged.  
  
But Christian and Satine were backstage, still holding each other, oblivious to everything but each other. They spoke their love with rose petals falling gracefully around them. But then, as she had done before when she had been wearing a corset, or had been panicked or excited, Satine lost her breath.  
  
She began to gasp, clutching at Christian, coughing, as he lowered to his knees, trying to figure out what was wrong, why she was gasping so much. She began to cough, and as he looked, he saw the blood on the kerchief. Had she not told him something?  
  
He looked down at her. He had seen that look before. He has seen the look when he had been in hospitals visiting someone, when he had to walk by the patients... the patients that were... that were dying. But certainly not his Satine. But she coughed again, and as the crowd of glittering and glitzy actors and dancers gathered around, suddenly solemn from their cheerful state, he saw the blood flow out of her mouth.  
  
"Christian," she was crying, sobbing, trying to clutch at him. "Christian..."  
  
Jocelyn began to sob herself as she read. Satine told Christian that she was sorry, that he had to go on, that she would always love him, and that he should tell their story. And when she said all she had to say, she died in his arms.  
  
It ended with Christian going back to his apartment and locking himself up, writing their story as he had promised Satine he would. It ended with him writing how worthless he felt knowing he could do nothing about her disease of consumption, and how worthless he still felt that he no longer had anything to live for. His love, along with his life, had died. But he went on. And that was the story of the Moulin Rouge.  
  
Jocelyn placed the last page on the stack, trying to dry her eyes with the back of her hand. Who had written this? Who had written this story that must be shared? Where had it... her mind flashed back to earlier in the day when she had run into that gentleman in the hall way. Back to his handsome face and big eyes that spoke novels. Had he... they had switched drafts! He had her story, and she had his.  
  
Who was he?  
  
She got up and went to the wash basin across the room and splashed cold water onto her face and dried it with the terry cloth before deciding to go down to see her father about it, when she looked at the clock. It was almost two in the morning, and she wondered if she had been so raptured in the story that she hadn't heard her father or her maid when they'd come in, if they had, earlier.  
  
Shrugging, she rang for her maid, feeling terrible about the hour but knowing she'd never be able to get out of this extremely uncomfortable dress otherwise.  
  
Lacy came in two minutes later, and Jocelyn knew she had waken her. "I'm so sorry, Lacy," she said. "I didn't realize the hour, I had been reading. But could you please help me get out of this dress?"  
  
Lacy, who was about the same age as Jocelyn, nodded, giving Jocelyn a small, tired smile. She nodded and apologized as she yawned, and turned Jocelyn around, and began to undo the long row of buttons that held Jocelyn's peach coloured dress together.   
  
A couple years ago, Lacy had once worked in a household where she was not treated nicely. She had been serving as a maid since she was fifteen, when her father died, and in this household where she had been working for girls older than she was then, who had been rather cruel to her when their parents weren't around, Lacy was absolutely miserable. When she had transferred to the William's house to serve Jocelyn, she was absolutely grateful when she realized the Jocelyn was gentle by nature, and overly kind. So in gratitude, she would do anything for Jocelyn.  
  
Once she got Jocelyn out of the dress, she moved to hang it up, and grabbed her negligee. Jocelyn was holding a hand to her stomach, gasping in breath. "I hadn't realized I'd been sitting so long in this thing," she told Lacy. The corset was cutting off her air supply because her ribs still seemed to be formed in a sitting position. Lacy gave her a sad look and came back quickly, unlacing the corset.  
  
"What were you reading?" Lacy asked as she pulled the laces. "If you don't mind my asking."  
  
Jocelyn shook her head, the ringlets that hung from the back of her hair tickling her neck. "I was reading a draft of a story actually. A man came here earlier..." she gasped as her chest was released. "And I ran into him. I was holding my own story to show my father," Lacy knew about Jocelyn's writing. She was, in fact, the only person who knew about it, other than Amanda, Jocelyn's best friend. "And our papers went flying. I accidentally ended up with his, and he with mine."  
  
The corset came off, and Jocelyn turned around, giving Lacy a look of complete appreciation. "Thank you so much." She drew in a full breath. "I can breathe!" She laughed a bit. "Come and help me take the pins out of my hair and I'll tell you about the story."  
  
Lacy complied happily, following Jocelyn to her vanity, glad she had been woken from her sleep to talk with her mistress. She always enjoyed these times. At the vanity, they began to pull pins out of her hair, and Jocelyn explained the story she had just read. Near the end of her tale, Jocelyn's hair was brushed out, and Lacy was sitting next to her on the vanity stool, hanging on Jocelyn's every word.  
  
When it was over, Lacy placed a hand against her chest. "Oh my Lord!" She said in her thick French accent. "That is so sad! But so romantic..."  
  
Jocelyn shook her head, looking in the mirror at her wavy hair as it flowed over her shoulders. "It's very romantic. But it's so depressing, isn't it?" She smiled over at Lacy, then yawned, looking over at the clock. "Oh, dear. It's almost three thirty. I'm sorry for keeping you."  
  
"No need to worry, miss."  
  
Jocelyn smiled. "I won't wake you early. Believe me."  
  
Lacy smiled back and went to the huge four-poster canopy bed and pulled the thick white duvet back. "Good night." She said to Jocelyn, and was on her way.  
  
Jocelyn crawled into bed, fingering her amulet that she had gotten in Ireland as a child that she continuously wore around her neck. She stared into the fire across the room, at the painting that sat on the mantle surrounded by vases filled with lilies. She couldn't get the story out of her mind, nor the man in the hallway, who had written it.  
  
I wonder what it would be like at the Moulin Rouge, she wondered, for she had never been anywhere that sounded as what was described by the mysterious man.   
  
She drifted off to sleep wondering what it would be like to be in Satine's place. 


	5. 3 Panic

Chapter 3  
  
Panic  
  
Christian was in an absolute panic.   
  
He had gotten back to his home and threw the script onto the table. It scattered, but he didn't care. He sat and sulked over the extremely short conversation he and that so-called publisher had had that afternoon. After an hour of excessive sulking, he then got up to straighten the pile.   
  
He was placing them it right order when he skimmed one page, and realized that that was not his writing; it wasn't even his style.  
  
Scanning the story quickly, he realized it was about a man and woman in love, an artist and a rich Irishwoman, and something about a journal. He didn't take the time to read it all, even though he was rather intrigued because he hadn't the slightest clue who had written it.   
  
But he gathered the papers and tucked them under his arm and marched back to the hoity-toity neighborhood, marched right up the steps of the townhouse and banged the knocker in eight rapid movements, then waited in stony silence.   
  
The same butler answered the door, his nose turned up in the air this time. "Yes?" He asked.  
  
"I need to see Mr. Williams." Christian informed the man.  
  
"He is not taking any visitors right now." He began to close the door.  
  
"Oh, but I'm not a visitor. I actually demand that I see him. Now. I want my script back."  
  
The butler looked down at the papers in Christian's hand. "I believe you have your script, sir. Good day."  
  
Christian placed his hand on the door, keeping it open. "This isn't mine. Some girl I ran into in the hallway switched-..."  
  
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Williams is unavailable. So, as I said sir, Mr. Williams will not be seeing anyone. You may check back later." The butler closed the door smartly in Christian's face.  
  
Christian stared in stunned incredulity at the big blue door for a moment, before picking up the knocker again and knocking continuously, as hard as he could. He saw a maid peep out from behind a curtain in the front window, then quickly draw back as he made eye contact with her.  
  
Giving up for the moment, but not completely, Christian stomped away and went back home.   
  
He'd be back.  
  
Hee paced the floors of his apartment, sitting in the window, sitting out on the roof, but he couldn't seem to stop thinking about his script. About what a huge mistake it had been to take it to a publisher. Especially the publisher he had taken it to.  
  
Humiliated and weak spirited, Christian sighed. Maybe it wasn't time to go back into the world. Maybe he should stay clammed up, only going out when he needed food, the way he had been living. He was grateful for Toulouse, who was keeping rent for Christian by selling the script of Spectacular, Spectacular, among other things.   
  
When night began to work it's way into the sky that looked bloodshot because of the dull yellow of the setting sun and streaming brilliant red clouds, he crawled inside and lit a couple of candles, then took a bite out of an apple that was sitting in an old wooden bowl on the table.   
  
He looked over at the script that wasn't his. Shrugging his shoulders, he went to it, pulling the first page off. He read the beginning, and he could literally sense the sadness of the writer, this writer who had seemed to pour them selves into the writing.   
  
It told of a man who was lonely, an artist. Who had moved around quite a bit, but was finally settling down in France. He had never been in love, had never even wished for it, until one day, during market, a mysterious redhead came into view, and he realized she was what he had been waiting for.  
  
Christian didn't finish it. It hit too close to home. He threw the apple core into the trash and then drenched his face and hair in cold water, then dried off his face and hair and chest, then stripped off of the rest of his clothing before climbing into bed. The tiny clock he had been able to get said it was eleven o'clock.  
  
And as Christian drifted off to sleep, he had no idea that the girl he had run into in that corridor was reading his story, was finding out all about his life, the life he had lived, and was crying for him. 


	6. 4 A Sickness of Two Sorts

Chapter 4  
  
A Sickness of Two Sorts  
  
Jocelyn did as she promised Lacy, she didn't wake her until very late.   
  
At one in the afternoon, Jocelyn came awake, but was still absolutely exhausted after having a dream she didn't understand and could barely remember. What she could remember were bright, flashing, swirling colours and lights and people, everywhere, there were people. Dancing and laughing and cheering, and she herself was someone she did not recognize.  
  
And there was a man. A man she knew she would recognize if she could only get one full glimpse of his face. He was trying to tell her something, yelling at her, but he sounded so far away, and all she could do was go along with what everyone else was do. It was psychotic, and she was terrified, but all she wanted to do was grab onto this man she could barely recognize...  
  
The moment she finally got her dream to pause, she walked through the frozen atmosphere. People were motionless, like statues, in whatever position they were her dream finally came under her control. The dancers were still, their faces wreathed in gigantic grins and their skirts were twirled and the colours almost blinding. The men had their top hats in hand, and hair was flying in the air, and laughs and voices echoed in the huge room.  
  
She walked around in what seemed slow motion, in this room of human statues. The man she was trying to recognize was standing alone with his back to her. She was reaching out, trying to get to him, saying his name but she couldn't hear her own words. She was about to touch his shoulder when in very slow motion, her mind sunk back into reality, and she awoke.  
  
Groaning, Jocelyn opened her eyes. She rolled over onto her side, reaching up to rub her eyes. Her dream ran over and over in circles around her mind, still fresh. "Por le amour de Dieu," she muttered when the sun hit her eyes through the windows where she had forgotten to pull the drapes over.  
  
She had a terrible headache, and all she could do was pull the string that rang a bell in Lacy's room. A few moments later, Lacy came in, up and dressed, all smiles, holding some fresh linen in her hands. "Are you up, miss?"  
  
"Yes, Lacy, could you help me up? I fear I don't feel very well this morning."  
  
Concern crossed Lacy's face, and she set the linens down on the padded chair next to the door. "What's the matter?" She pulled the thick comforter and duvet away from Jocelyn, who let Lacy grip her arm and help her sit up. She gripped her head, "Oh, dear, I have a terrible headache."  
  
Lacy let go of her arm for a moment and went over to close the drapes. "Let me get you some powder." She rushed out of the room and came back with the medicine and a glass of water. She spooned the aspirin into the water and mixed, then handed it to Jocelyn, who drank the bitter brew. "Are you alright?"  
  
  
  
"Yes, Lacy, thank you." Jocelyn handed the emptied glass back to Lacy. "Will you get my father?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Lacy hurried away.   
  
Jocelyn lay back against the pillows, gasping in breath at the sharp pain in her head. "Ow," she mumbled, and lay back against the pillows. She was absolutely fine until... until that dream... and that man...  
  
She closed her eyes and began to wonder about her dream when the door opened and Lacy and Henry rushed in. "Darling, what's the matter?"  
  
Jocelyn looked up at her father. "Papa, I think I'm terribly ill."  
  
"What's the matter?" He reached out to stroke her hair. "Do you need anything?"  
  
"Tea, and sleep." She said, already drifting off. A picture floated across her mind. Home. "I want to go to the country..."  
  
"The country?" Henry looked at Lacy who was hovering behind him. "Is she delusional?"  
  
"No, I don't think so. I think she means home."  
  
"Oh, home. Home! Home. You want to go to home?"  
  
Jocelyn stared up at her father. "The country, home, yes."  
  
"Lacy, go fetch your mistress some tea," Henry admonished, and Lacy gave Jocelyn one last glance before rushing out of the room to do as told. "Darling, why do you want to go to the house?"  
  
"Air. It's so suffocating here." She explained. "We've been here for weeks."  
  
"But I can't go now, dear," Henry said, perplexed. "I'm working with-," he stopped when Jocelyn interrupted.  
  
"Aunt. Tell Aunt Caroline, she'll come with me. Please. I'll come back when I feel better, I don't want to miss the Season, and I'm sure Aunt Caro won't want to either."   
  
The Season was barely just beginning, and Jocelyn still had to be fitted for new ballroom dresses and sitting dresses, all sorts of dresses, and there were parties to attend, parties to plan, but right now, all she could think about was the pain, and how she felt suffocated. She didn't understand it exactly, but her head was pounding and she could barely think.   
  
Her mouth was dry, her eyes burned. Lacy came back in, carefully making her way around Mr. Williams to set the tea tray on the antique nightstand. She poured the hot chamomile into a china cup decorated with yellow flowers, then handed it to Jocelyn, who took it with a grateful smile and sipped at it. "Oh, Lucy, you're wonderful." She sat back against the pillow, cradling the warm cup. The pain was subduing a bit, but the pain was still fresh in the front of her skull.   
  
"Aunt Caroline?" Henry was saying, then sighed. "All right, sweeting." He took the cup from Jocelyn, tucked her back in. "Sleep, and I'll have a message sent straight to her..." Jocelyn drifted off to sleep.  
  
**  
  
Christian stared once again at Mr. Taylor's blue front door. It had, once again, been shut in his face.   
  
Anger seethed through him, and he continued to knock and ring the bell. All he could think about was that script. It was quite simply, his life. His memories. The only thing that kept Satine with him, other than the dreams that frequently visited him at night.  
  
"Mr. Taylor! I only want my script!" He was yelling, and was surprised when the door opened, and a young woman in a simple blue cotton dress with a full skirt and small white apron tied over it answered.   
  
"May I help you, sir?" The pretty, but harried young maid asked.  
  
"Yes, I want my script."  
  
"Script? Oh, you must be here to see Mr. Taylor," Lacy began to step away from the door to invite him in and offer him tea, but stopped when he said:  
  
"No, I'm here to see his daughter. I ran into her in the hallway and she switched our damn scripts." His voice had risen four pitches higher than it should have been, and Lacy half stepped outside with him to close the door a little bit. "Sir, please, be quiet. What are you talking about?"  
  
"A script. The script. I need it," he said, sounding almost as if he was whining instead of pleading. He ran his hand through his already untidy hair. "I need it back."  
  
Lacy knew what script he was speaking of, but Lacy knew that Jocelyn had probably hidden in, and she had no idea where, and she couldn't very well ask her now. "Miss Williams is rather sick, Monsieur... Monsieur?"  
  
"Taylor."  
  
"Ah, Monsieur Taylor. I apologize for her. But she is sick with a migraine and is about to retire to the country for a couple of weeks. Please. Come back at another time, and I'm sure she will gladly give it back."  
  
"You don't know where it is, miss?"  
  
Lacy smiled at him, the dimples in her cheeks winking, trying to keep him in his calm state. "Non, monsieur, I am sorry. But I will tell her when she is awake that you have come looking for it."  
  
Christian stepped back, one hand resting on the small of his back, one resting mid motion of running it through his hair again. "All right, then. All right. Thank you, miss. I'll check back in a few weeks. Thank you..." In a rather dazed state, he walked away, and went back home.  
  
Once there, he sat at the table and stared at the wall. Everything he had devoted his life too was missing, and it was driving him absolutely mad. He needed Satine back, he needed... he needed... the words clogged his brain and he began to sob. He hunched forward in the chair, gripping himself around the waist with his left arm and fisting his right hand in his hair.   
  
He thought these feelings were over. He thought he could go on. But he wasn't ready. He didn't know what to do, what to say to anyone, how to live without her by his side....  
  
"I don't want you to sleep with him."  
  
Christian had grabbed Satine on her way off of the stage after a fatal mistake he had just made by yelling at the duke in front of everyone 'She doesn't love you!' as he questioned why the play was ending with the courtesan marrying the penniless guitar player instead of the duke, who could support her financially. As it had been in real life.   
  
And Christian had slipped. He had let their secret out.  
  
But all Satine could do was hold him against her, nuzzle her face into his. "You promised you wouldn't be jealous, Christian. I have to."  
  
"No, please... No." He had pleaded with her, begged, he had cried, held her face in his hands and pleaded. "You can't."  
  
"Christian, I'm sorry..."  
  
Christian sat now, still crying and hunched in the chair. "Satine," he murmured. She had been here. He could almost smell her, and he could still feel her presence. She was always with him.  
  
Always, always with him.  
  
And it was driving him mad. Absolutely mad.  
  
She had promised him she would always be here, even as she died. And in a way, she was.  
  
He was terrified to let her go. He loved her so much.   
  
So much... 


	7. 5 Aunt Caroline

Chapter 5   
  
Aunt Caroline  
  
Aunt Caroline Houston is the most eccentric, prompt, and blunt person Jocelyn had ever met. Aunt Caro was also her favorite person in the world, other than her father, Lacy, and Mandy.  
  
This afternoon, when Jocelyn's door was quietly opened instead of flung up like it usually is when Aunt Caroline stops by for a visit, Jocelyn didn't know who to expect at first. But in came Aunt Caroline, wearing a huge seventeen-hundreds era dress and hat made of gorgeous blue material with small flowers printed on it, face wreathed in a worried, but huge, smile.  
  
Aunt Caro was a petite person, but not in height, much like her brother. She was five ten, quite rare for the times, but very skinny. She was also exquisite. She had blonde curling hair, gorgeous skin that Jocelyn knew she had to have gotten it from her, and big, big blue eyes. She was loud, boisterous, and just a tad crazy after having married an extremely rich, extremely annoying ninety year old Englishman named Sir Theodore Manning Floyd Houston, who died a mere year after there wedding.  
  
No surprise there.  
  
  
  
Jocelyn rolled over to greet Aunt Caroline. Her face was puffy, her eyes slightly swollen, and she was rather nauseous, but the pain in her head had lessened to a dull throb. "Aunt Caro," she croaked out before trying to smile and cleared her throat. "Sorry. I think I may have caught a late bug."  
  
"Oh, you poor darling," Aunt Caroline said, kneeling beside the huge four poster and rubbing a hand over Jocelyn's cheek with a lace-glove garbed hand. "You're all sweaty." She felt Jocelyn's forehead, checked her face. "I hope you haven't gotten consumption, that would be terrible."   
  
That was what Aunt Caroline's husband had died of. Jocelyn remembered when she had seen him a few months after he'd gotten sick. He'd coughed up amounts of blood into handkerchiefs that he always threw into a basket in the back of the kitchen when she needed a new one.   
  
  
  
She remembered some of them had been soaked with blood.  
  
Shivering, Jocelyn eyed her Aunt warily. "Mon Dieu, I would certainly hope not. I don't think so. I think it's just claustrophobia and homesickness, Aunt Caro."  
  
"Well, I'll have your things packed and," she looked at the drawn curtains, "the curtains in the carriage closed so there's no sunlight to hurt your head, all right love?"  
  
Jocelyn nodded, then gripped her pillow and pushed her face into it.  
  
An hour later, Jocelyn was awoken by Lacy. "Everything is packed and they're ready to take us home." Lacy was smiling. Jocelyn knew Lacy must also be excited about going home. She hated the country almost as much as Jocelyn did sometimes.  
  
Jocelyn held a hand out and Lacy and Aunt Caro came to help her up on wobbly legs. "Oh dear, you must be feel absolutely terrible!" Aunt Caroline was saying.   
  
Jocelyn was absolutely grateful her Aunt lived in Paris also and was able to get her out of there quickly. "I'm all right, I'm okay." She said, reaching out for her silk negligee she had bought on her last trip to London. She tied it around her waist and then slipped her shoes on before going downstairs, coughing into a hankie that Aunt Caro handed to her.  
  
She met her father at the end of the stairs, who looked upon her sadly. "I'm sorry I can't join you dear. You know how business goes. But I shall join you as soon I can, I promise." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then turned to his sister and kissed both of her cheeks. "Dear sister. Thank you for taking her to the country. I hope this isn't distressing to you."  
  
"No, no, Henry, don't worry about it. I've been getting tired of the city also so, this should be a breath of fresh air." She kissed her brother's cheek. "We shall see you in a few weeks." She gripped Jocelyn's arm lightly, Lacy on the other side, and they helped her outside and quickly into the carriage, where she collapsed, sweating and shivering.  
  
Her sickness was getting worse and she had no idea why.  
  
But then an idea struck her, and she knew she had to have it with her. "Lacy," she breathed and Lacy began to get in. "Lacy, please, go back up to my room and get the script. The script... it's... it's hidden under the cushions of the bay window. Please hurry and get it for me."  
  
"Yes, Jocelyn." Lacy hurried off as a footman helped Aunt Caro into the darkened chamber of the carriage. "Script, dear? What script?"  
  
"The Moulin Rouge. I ran into a man and... and our scripts, they got switched. I need to read his again. I need to figure something out." She laid her head back against the deep, purple velvet cushions of the seat. "I need to figure it out," she murmured, drifting back to sleep.  
  
"Oh..." Caroline grabbed a blanket that was concealed from view by being hidden under the bench in a small compartment. She wrapped it around her niece's lap and tucked her in as Jocelyn murmured something, then gripped the blanket. Caroline felt like crying, these symptoms were so familiar, yet... she had a feeling that Jocelyn would be okay. But it worried her nonetheless. Jocelyn seemed to be rather delusional.  
  
Caroline shrugged off the feeling and sat back on her seat and waited for Lacy to return. When she did, the footman closed to door, and Caroline opened the curtain that covered the window of the door just a tad. "What is that, Lacy dear?"  
  
"It's a script that Jocelyn asked me to get, m'am."  
  
"Call me Caroline, dear," She said, trying to be quiet. "A script? She was murmuring about it earlier. What's it called?"  
  
Lacy looked down. "'The Moulin Rouge.'"   
  
"Sounds scandalous," Caroline joked in that odd way of hers. "I wonder what it's about."  
  
"Jocelyn told me," Lacy said. "Last night. She was up until one reading it."  
  
"Oh, do tell, dear."  
  
So Lacy explained, and at the end Caroline sat almost on the brink of tears. "Oh, Christ, is that depressing. How terribly tragic, yet so romantic." Caroline blinked and shook her head, folding her hands in her lap. "She must love it to have remembered to ask you to bring it so suddenly," Caroline said after a moments pause.  
  
"Yes, she seemed quite excited about it last night, Madame Caroline."  
  
Caroline smiled at the way Lacy pronounced her name Karo-leene. She liked it. "I will have to ask her about it when she is better. She said she ran into a man in the hallway and her script got exchanged with his. What script?"  
  
Lacy looked away, "I would tell you but... but I am... what's the phrase? Juré au secret... Sworn to secrecy, oui."  
  
"Oh. But, oh yes, I get it. She wants to be a writer."  
  
"Oui, Madame." Lacy nodded.  
  
"I knew it. She always was brilliant," Caroline said, pulling out a fan painted with oriental flowers and began to fan herself as she looked over at Jocelyn. "She's incredibly brilliant. Let's just hope she can find a man who can handle her," Caroline said with a wink as she looked back at Lacy.  
  
Caroline knew a side of Jocelyn that no one else knew. When she was visiting, she would sometimes go stark raving mad. Especially when she had an idea. She would babble and pace and write like someone who had fever of the brain. She would then rant and rave about how the world wasn't fair, before promptly locking herself in her room for hours and then coming out the next morning, or that night, and act as though nothing had happened.  
  
Caroline loved her niece as though she were her own daughter. She loved her spunkiness, and all she could hope for was that Jocelyn would make it in this world run by egotistical men who thought they knew everything, in this world where women had no right of their own, because they were meek, pathetic little creatures with no minds.  
  
Caroline gave a smug smile at that thought and slid a look over to Jocelyn.  
  
Jocelyn could prove the world wrong. And all Caroline had to do was sit back and watch the progress in action.  
  
** 


End file.
